


What You Can Bear

by abluestocking



Category: Longbourn - Jo Baker
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:06:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abluestocking/pseuds/abluestocking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaret Hill gives up one child and gains another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Can Bear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashesandhoney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashesandhoney/gifts).



_“Don’t be so bloody stupid!” Mrs. Hill slapped her hand down on the table, making Sarah jump, and the crocks rattle. “You have no idea at all yet what you can bear!”_

Margaret did not know, sometimes, if she truly loved the young master. He was good to look at, and he kissed her sweetly by the fireplace, when the rest of the house was asleep. He called her “sweetling” and “my Margaret”, and that made her heart thrill. 

She was young, in those days, and perhaps the smallest dream still lingered in the back of her mind, that she was more than a tumble; but even when she was young, even when she dreamed, she knew that any thought of legitimizing their relationship was impossible. Should she become Mrs. Bennet, their irregular household would be at once doomed to social ignominy. Gentlemen did not marry _maids_. 

And yet her heart still thrilled when he held her.

When she missed her monthlies a second time, and knew it was not sickness that had caused the previous month’s absence, but their child, she had to start making bread – even though she had made bread just that morning, she needed the rhythmic push-pull of kneading to center her as she gasped inside, mind awhirl. 

She could bear being the young master’s bedwarmer, never acknowledged, never truly together. But now – a child – her child – _their_ child –

It would be months before Margaret could feel the child, but she rested her hand on her belly nonetheless, breathing in and out, imagining it swelling under her hand as the child grew inside her, dreaming impossible dreams.

Then she snapped back to reality, bread dough lying slack under her other hand, her breath coming fast and rough.

~

The problem with impossible dreams was that they hurt so much when they broke.

Margaret might not know, sometimes, if she truly loved the young master. She thought she did, and she thought – almost more surely – that the young master truly loved her in return, even if he might never acknowledge it even to himself. 

The one thing she did know, with absolute and earth-shattering clarity, was how completely she loved the scrap of humanity that took one look at the world and bellowed lustily to return to her womb. She held him close, her son, and tried to memorize every inch of him, every last curve of his limbs and every last plaintive wail. 

Then she gave him up, because she loved him.

The young master was waiting for her when she returned to Longbourn. (Before she had left for her confinement, they had been so careful not to be close; for the sake of his social standing, it was best not to let rumors get around that the young Mr. Bennet at Longbourn had got a servant in the family way. It would not ruin him – young men were, as always, young men – but it would have made it impossible for Margaret to return to Longbourn. And return she must; not only was it all she had, but it was a way to know what happened to her precious son.)

“Margaret,” he said, nodding politely to her. 

Had he been her equal, he might have offered a hand to her to help her across the stoop. She was still recovering from bearing his child. Had he been her equal, he might have taken her bag – or stepped forward to embrace her. Had he been her equal, she would have been carrying their son in her arms – she would never have left.

“Sir,” Margaret said, and was proud that her voice did not break.

Every time she thought she could not bear more, she found there was more to bear.

~

_But the sudden shift in movement proved unsettling; inside her tight-bound shawl, a small, still bundle now began to stir and mewl. Sarah stopped and peered down into the folds. The baby, newly woken, gazed up with wide and startled eyes._

_Sarah touched the perfect brow with a fingertip. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Not far now.”_

It was washing day. 

Margaret would forever remember that, in years to come. The smell of the soap in the air – the wind in the trees – Polly pegging up petticoats on the line, curls whipping at her cheeks in the breeze – the sound of Mrs. Bennet scolding her husband in the drawing room.

She would remember the moment when Polly stopped her work, froze, and (just when Margaret was about to call out chidingly) dropped the petticoat she was holding _in the mud_ , walked right over it, and broke into a run, loping off into the distance.

“What the world is coming to these days, I truly don’t know,” she said aloud. Her husband was dead these four years, but she still found herself talking aloud sometimes, as if he was still at her elbow. Theirs had never been a love story, but companionship they had had, and understanding; Margaret missed him, a soft gentle ache like a healing bruise, an ache easier to think about than the jangling broken edges of the other wound that never healed.

She sighed and went outside to pick up the petticoat. It would have to be washed again, whatever mad fancy had taken Polly running off across the paddock. 

That was when she saw the figures Polly was running to.

There was no reason she should know who they were. They were quite a distance away yet, and her eyes were not as good as they had once been. But somehow – 

She dropped the petticoat into the mud again, picked up her skirts, and ran.

~

When Sarah put the baby in her arms, with James smiling proudly behind her, Margaret felt as she could faint, or fly. (Not that she would do either, holding such a precious bundle, with the sleepily inquisitive face turned up towards her.)

“We came back,” Sarah said, and there was something in her face, when Margaret could tear her gaze away from her granddaughter’s, that told her that her erstwhile maid had grown, and not just in years. Perhaps she knew now, the full terror of what a person could lose; perhaps she might begin to imagine how much strength it took for a person to keep living, when you were missing such a huge part of your heart.

“You came back,” Margaret said, unable to keep her voice from cracking, swallowing hard.

James put a strong arm around her shoulders. “Her name is Margaret.”

The babe wrapped its little fist tightly around her finger.


End file.
